


Won't You Please

by chibiVeneficus



Series: Pleasure Caste [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Pole Dancing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 13:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibiVeneficus/pseuds/chibiVeneficus
Summary: Either on the pole or in his arms, Springer can't get enough of Hot Rod.





	Won't You Please

The theater was packed to the brim with mechs and femmes from all over Iacon and beyond. Their restless frames created a quiet cacophony that the overhead music barely covered up. Springer watched the crowd, looking for anything, or anyone, out of place. There had been a commotion not too long ago with an over-energetic guest attempting to climb the stage but it looked like the remaining guests were content to stay in their seats.

It wouldn’t be long now. He checked his chrono, counting down the seconds, keeping up his mask of bored awareness to cover his eager anticipation.

The lights dimmed and at once the crowd silenced their chatter, their optics aimed towards the stage.

“Mechs and femmes of all caste and rank,” the announcer said with ease of repetition, “we of the Iacon Pleasure caste would like to welcome you to our humble show. Please sit back, relax, enjoy our selection of fine drinks, and the tantalizing sight of our number one dancer, Hot Rod!”

A single spotlight flashed on directly overhead the raised platform. The crowd thumped and clapped to the music’s beat as a lone figure appeared from the rafters and slowly twirled down the center pole. He came to a standing stop as the music paused, smiling and posing to the crowd’s delight.

Then the music resumed and he became a flurry of motion.

Springer kept one optic out for any dangers; the other was solely focused on Hot Rod. Even though he’d seen it dozens of times before, the routine hadn’t grown old.

Hot Rod dazzled in the light, his frame polished to a shine and layered with glitter to accent the edges of his plates. The reds and oranges of his paint moving like a living flame as he climb a few handholds up, thighs bracketing the pole in a tight grip. He spun in a quick circle, right leg straight out as his left pointed straight down, before he twisted his frame so that he was upside down and only the strength of his arms kept him from falling on his face. The gamma twisted with hard practiced grace around the pole, the long, trailing ribbons tied to his ankles and wrists fluttering behind.

It was a single person dance that begged no partner. There was only him and the pole; everyone else were merely background noise to be ignored while he danced.

It was Springer’s favorite part where Hot Rod lost himself to the thumping beat and the movement of his body. All of his considerable energy was focused on going faster, turning quicker, make his frame twist into alluring poses with barely a pause between. He was always at his most confident when gripping a pole.

He was beautiful.

Last act had him slowing, Hot Rod’s moves shifting from manic to sensual. He treated the pole like a lover, caressing the inert metal with such skilled hands that revs from the audience picked up in pitch. He ground against the pole, thighs teasing the sight of his panel.

Then the music picked back up and Hot Rod burst into flames.

Gasps from the crowd drowned the music but Hot Rod continued to dance to the beat as flames licked over his frame. It was clear the fire was no special effect, no trick of the lights. The heat was too intense, scorch marks following in his wake and heat mirages curling around the edges of his plates.

The fluttering ribbons burned bright yellow before shifting to brilliant purples and blues. They slowly burned to ash as Hot Rod spun and spun, the effect not unlike falling stars trapped in orbit.

He twirled down at decreasing speed, music winding down with him, the flames slowly settling from lashing tongues into a subtle smolder, and he came to rest in a split with his hands over his head still gripping the pole behind him.

Hot Rod stood from his finishing position after a beat of stunned silence and bowed to the crowd. Rowdy cheers erupted from the audience once their amazement allowed them to quite gaping.

He laughed off their cries for an encore, blowing kisses and winks as they showered him with praise and initialed handkerchiefs. The guests weren’t technically allowed to throw items onto the stage but as long as none of the items were heavy or breakable the deltas would ignore them.

With one last bow and thanks, arms filled with new cleaning cloths, Hot Rod exited stage left, almost running in his haste to leave.

He only slowed long enough to spot Springer. When he did, his face split into an even bigger grin, and Springer caught Hot Rod as he leapt into his arms, mouths instantly meeting in a crushing kiss seconds after Springer‘s shift status ticked over to ‘off’. The gamma was still smoking from his seams but Springer could handle the heat.

Hot Rod giggled as their kiss broke and all the cloths spilled from his hold so that he could wrap his arms around Springer’s shoulders. The cloths littered the floor for some omega to sweep up and deliver to Hot Rod’s room later.

“You looked wonderful out there.” Springer spun them around in a quick circle and adjusted his grip on Hot Rod so that his hands were full of pert aft. “Ravishing, even.”

“And yet I haven’t been ravished yet,” Hot Rod said. His hands were busy petting the wide expanse of the delta’s chest, clever fingers plucking at wires with familiarity.

“I’ll have to fix that, won’t I?”

He hoisted Hot Rod higher, the gamma squealing in feigned surprise as he found himself up against the wall and his thighs bracketing Springer’s helm. His panel snapped open to the barest touch of Springer’s glossa, the folds of his valve wet and puffy with anticipation.

Hot Rod‘s valve was a masterpiece, a real work of art. So soft and supple, textured for pleasure, snug and hot and eager. Spinger’s glossa sank in with ease, each leisurely lick sparking desire up and down his frame. No matter how many times they did this, it was always like that first time they’d come together. There was something about Hot Rod that cranked his shaft harder than any other partner he’d ever had.

His glossa roved over small brilliant nodes sparking with charge. Silky lubricant swelled from the clenching walls to easy his way as he licked deeper. He took his glossa back for a moment to kiss the folds of Hot Rod’s valve with reverence. The gamma’s whine at the loss morphed into a pleased cry as Springer nuzzled closer.

“Primus, I love your nose,” Hot Rod gasped, rocking forward in sharp bursts to rub his nub against praised appendage.

Springer hummed, glossa flicking back in, lapping up as much lubricant as he could to try and keep the mess down and failing. Thick beads of it ran down his chin to pool in the crevices of his neck. It would be annoying to clean later; at the moment, he didn’t care.

Other gammas hustled by as they prepared for the next number, most ignoring the couple while a few whistled their appreciation for the free show. Hot Rod cheekily waved at the admirers before Springer distracted him with well placed nips along his valve lips.

“Oh yeah, yeah, Primus you’re so good, so good.” Hot Rod moaned loud and long, unconcerned about making a ruckus. “You’re always so good to me.” He drew his hands along the curve of Springer’s chevron and vents, petting all the right places to make the delta’s engine rev.

Ego stroked, Springer licked harder, his teeth grazing Hot Rod’s nub as he pushed for more contact. He buried himself between the gamma’s thighs, eating the offering before him with all the worship he could muster.

Time held no meaning to them. Distantly, Springer could hear the musical strands for the next number beginning, the hustle of moving frames passing behind him, but all his attention was on the gamma moving under his glossa.

Springer hummed and revved his engine hard, the vibrations from both going straight to Hot Rod’s nub. Hot Rod arced, moaning loud, charge flickering over his frame as he desperately sought more contact, just a little more friction --

Overload had Hot Rod clawing at Springer’s helm, hips undulating to the waves of pleasure coursing through his frame, and boots kicking against Springer’s back. The delta was hard pressed not to release his spike and take Hot Rod against the wall right there and then. Only the warning he’d received from the bottom beta for the last time he’d done that kept him from doing so.

Springer took his glossa back only when Hot Rod‘s groans took on a painful lilt.

“Was that ravishing enough for you?” he asked, smirk only slightly ruined by all the lubricant dripping off of it.

Hot Rod laughed. “You know the answer to that! C’mon you big, handsome mech,” he folded himself over to kiss Springer’s nose, “let’s have an encore without an audience.”


End file.
